No Mercy (28 page)

By now Cardon had revved up, steered the launch away from the platform and was guiding it round the end of the
island and into the open sea. Marler slowly slid Paula's foot inside the boot and then waved his hand. He thought it best
for her to see how it fitted. She leaned down, pulled it up
inch by inch. No pain. Gripping a handrail, she stood up,
maintaining her balance. Tweed kept turning round to look
at her but never once did she return his glances. Marler
shook his head and Tweed sensibly said nothing. Give her time for her fury to fade.

The island was now behind them and the
Capulet
was
racing towards the distant
Oran.
The sea was now calm, a
sapphire plate. The gap between the two vessels was closing
as the
Oran
changed course. Tweed was leaning over the protective plate, staring intensely.

'It's well out now,' he shouted above the engine sound,
'and it's changed course to southwest. That means it's
heading for the Straits of Gibraltar and the Atlantic
beyond. It will turn north. Europe is its objective. So, now
I know.'

'We're in trouble,' Cardon warned. 'They've seen us and
they're winching a big power launch over the side.' He was
studying the vessel through binoculars. 'A lot of men on board with guns. They're coming for us.'

'Pancake time,' Marler called out, lifting his flat case.

'Pancakes?' Paula said incredulously.

'Latest development in sea mines.'

Marler grinned. Opening his case, he produced a slim metal object, circular in shape. He took out another, put it
on the deck between his feet, gazed at what was coming at
them. A big power launch, its prow was reinforced steel. If it hit them broadside on it would cut them in two. Its speed
was alarming, slicing through the sea like a torpedo. Arabs
aboard it were already firing automatic weapons. A hail of
bullets hammered against the protective metal plate.
Crouched down behind it, Tweed put a hand on Paula's
shoulder, firmly pressed her lower. The hostile power launch
was moving like the TGV.

'Don't fire back whatever you do!' Marler shouted. 'I want
it to stay on its present course.'

'It's going to ram us head on,' Cardon shouted back,
peering through a small hole covered with armour-plated
glass.

Paula couldn't resist peering over Tweed's neck. Marler,
during a pause in the bombardment, was standing up. In
one hand he held a pancake mine, another in reserve in his other hand. He skimmed the circular mine across the water
like a boy skimming a pebble over a pond. Then he skimmed
the second mine.

The steel prow of the attacking power launch was so high
up that whoever was steering it would never see Marler's
action. Cardon crawled swiftly to Paula, grabbed her by the
arm and hauled her across the deck to his original position.

'Look through that spy-hole. Don't worry - it has
armoured glass . . .'

Paula wasn't worried. She had her eye glued to the
spyhole. The power launch was further away than she'd
expected, but coming at them fast. She caught a brief sight
of a mine as it floated over a small wave. The prow of the enemy's vessel hit it square on. The explosion was fantastic.
The steel prow rocketed into the sky, the hull was split into
two pieces, one section upended and plunging out of sight
deep into the sea. The other section was in flames. The crew,
on fire from head to foot, dived into the sea in a desperate,
futile attempt to save their lives. Then the launch was gone,
leaving behind a spreading patch of oil on the sapphire blue.
'Home, James,' Tweed ordered Garden.

They returned to Vieux Port, climbed on to the landing
stage, hurried to their hotel. Tweed, who had the train times
in his head, said they'd just catch a TGV back to Paris if they
moved.

He had paid the bill and collected his case, when Paula
rushed down, followed by the others. When Tweed, who had
calculated the amount, had pushed a sheaf of euro notes on
the counter, the temporary girl had counted quickly, slipping
out ten, which she hid in her pocket. When she had told Tweed he hadn't paid enough he told her to add the tip she had stolen.

Outside, in the blazing sun, Tweed led the way to a
battered old cab waiting with an Arab at the wheel. She paused, tugged at his sleeve.

'That cab might not be safe.'

'With Cardon in his Arab gear as driver?'

At the station they dived out. Paula left last and whispered
to Cardon, 'You stay here, Philip?'

'Not on your life.' he whispered back. 'Heading East - to
slit a few throats.'

They boarded the waiting TGV scarcely a minute before
it glided out of St Charles, building up speed once the
suburbs were left behind. The team had found an empty first-class coach. As Tweed settled in a seat Paula joined him. Marler and Nield again took up their sentry posts at
each end of the coach.

Paula's mind was still full of blue sea, the great limestone
amphitheatre circling the city, the warmth of the sun, their
first sight of the He des Oiseaux, a limestone triangle perched
in the sapphire blue. She squeezed Tweed's arm.

'I want to apologize. For the awful things I said when I
arrived back at the bottom of the gulch. I feel terrible -I can
recall every dreadful thing I said.'

He put his arm round her waist, hugged her, looked
straight into her eyes.

'I'm the one to say sorry - and a feeble thank-you for
saving our lives. I looked back a millisecond before your
grenade detonated. I saw three huge Arabs about to spray us
with bullets. We'd all have gone down. My mistake was thinking you'd gone down ahead of us. When I realized you weren't with us I was appalled, overcome with emotion. On this grim trip there were three top players - yourself, Marler and Cardan.' He gave her a clean handkerchief. 'No need to
cry. Or maybe it'll make you feel better . . .'

When she had recovered, she asked the question. 'Did you
find out what you wanted to?'

'Yes. That freighter, the
Oran,
is headed for the Straits of
Gibraltar. Once in the Atlantic it can head for Europe, to
collect something I'm sure is pretty diabolical.'

20

The team had spent the night at a hotel in Paris, then caught
an early Eurostar to Waterloo. Approaching Waterloo,
Tweed turned to Paula, keeping his voice down.

'You'll come with me.' His voice was vigorous. 'It's time I
grilled all the suspects, got the hunt for the killer moving.
My first target is Aubrey Greystoke, finance director at Gantia.'

'So he's on your list of suspects?'

'All of them are.'

At Waterloo they divided their luggage between Marler
arid Nield and caught a taxi for the Tower in the city. As it
crawled along, Paula found her visions of the Mediterranean
fading, overlain by earlier experiences.

The strange drive with Michael to Dartmoor, the two
skeletons, Abbey Grange, its peculiar servants - Mrs Brogan
and Tarvin - the hideous discovery of Christine Barton's
skeleton in the kitchen fridge, the trip to Wensford and the
equally hideous locating of private detective John Jackson's
deteriorating body on the houseboat, it had become a panorama of horror.

It was a cold morning with a low cloud bank. Looking up
to the conical summit of the Tower, Paula saw it shrouded
in mist. The same receptionist stood behind her counter.
She had the same severe expression. Paula beat her to it.

'I know I can't take this shoulder bag with me. So lock it
away in one of those boxes.'

'The bag is locked. I want to see inside it.'

'Because it might contain a bomb?'

'Can't you read?' Tweed was holding his identity folder
under her nose. 'Stop fooling about. We're here to see
Aubrey Greystoke.'

'He's—'

'In Room 750. Seventh floor.' Tweed said. 'We take the
second elevator. Welcome to the Tower. It has an
architectural award,' Tweed went on, mimicking the
receptionist's patter on their previous visit when they had found Greystoke was out.

The girl stared at him, speechless, as they walked to the
bank of elevators. When the doors opened at the seventh
floor the hall was empty. They walked across to 750,
opposite the elevator. Tweed was about to press the bell
when the door opened. A slim blonde woman walked out,
pulling the door shut, her coat over her arm.

Tweed turned to watch her walk to the elevator, noticed that the zip at the back of her dress was halfway down her
shapely back. He walked over before she could call the lift.

'Excuse me, but it's cold outside and your zip isn't done
up properly. Allow me.' With a quick motion he pulled the zip up to the top. 'May I help you on with your coat? You'll
need it outside.'

She wasn't in the least disconcerted. As he helped her on
with the coat her green eyes studied him. He pressed the button for the ground floor, walked back to Paula as the woman stepped inside the elevator. The doors closed.

'His latest bit on the side,' Paula remarked. 'A bit early in
the day I'd have thought.'

'I'm looking for someone with stamina and strength,' he
remarked as he pressed the bell.

They had to wait. Then the door opened and Greystoke was
blinking as he gazed at them. Tieless, his shirt was open at the
neck. He wore a waistcoat and suit trousers. He eased his right
foot inside a slip-on shoe. A smell of whisky drifted out.

'Might. . . have made an appointment.' he grumbled.

'We're investigating a case of four murders.'

'Four?'
He peered at Paula. 'You're Petula Grey.'

'Paula,' she corrected him. 'We're coming in.'

'If you say so.'

He backed away, they walked in, he shut the door, led
them into a spacious living room-cum-office. A large desk
stood against the far wall, with all the technological 'junk' so
disliked by Tweed: a fax machine, an advanced computer
connected to the Internet. There was also a swivel chair,
. leather-bound and a screen on the wall above the desk.

In the living area was a long leather couch - Paula noticed
the cushions had been hastily piled untidily. She peered through an open door. It was the kitchen and on a counter,
waiting to be washed, was a glass rimmed with lipstick. On
a low mahogany table by the couch was the twin glass, half
full of Scotch. The bottle of the finest Scotch, half empty,
stood beside the glass.